


The Weight of a Kiss

by Watergaw



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergaw/pseuds/Watergaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An entirely self-indulgent amnesia ficlet, because I couldn't help writing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of a Kiss

Nathaniel woke from a nightmare of blood and smoke. Of the sound of something slick and heavy clinging to the vinyl cover of a car seat. Nausea. He let out a slow breath and opened his eyes. Pain. Disorientation. With a suppressed jolt, he realised that he didn’t know where he was. Carefully, he scanned the room, and tried to remember. 

A hospital bed. Panic gripped him. He shouldn’t be here. Where was his mother? He moved his hand, registering the iv drip spiked into the back, and calculated the odds of getting out of here, wherever here was, unnoticed. Not good enough. The dull throb against his skull, the way the light hurt his eyes, these told him he wasn’t in a fit state to make a move just yet.

  
A shape moved against the light, and a figure slowly swam into focus. A blond man, every inch of his presence screaming threat, in contrast to a face whose expression was impassive, almost bored.

  
“Neil.”

  
His name, then. He was here with this man, but who was he? His black clothes didn’t give much away, and his face was an even harder read. Time stretched on for an endless moment, and Nathaniel knew he needed to say something. Out of better options, he tried:

  
“I’m fine.”

  
A low hiss. “You are a mess. Who am I?”

  
Nathaniel couldn’t answer. The man fixed him with a look.

  
“Hello, Abram.” Straight for the jugular, and this time Nathaniel couldn’t hide his flinch.

  
“I thought so. I’d ask how much you’ve lost, but you can’t trust me, can you?”

  
He leaned in, too close, pressing his fingers in to feel the pulse in Nathaniel’s neck racing, faster.

  
When he spoke again, all the hairs on Nathaniel’s neck rose.

  
“Your name is Neil, Abram. Your mother and father are dead, and you don’t have to run anymore.” He stopped, moving his hand to rest on top of Nathaniel’s hospital gown. “You have a fine collection of scars, but this one?” A firm but gentle pressure from the heel of his hand.”This one’s a burn from an iron, courtesy of Nathan.”

  
The man’s words sang in Nathaniel’s ears. It wasn’t just the things he’d said. It was the language. That was Russian.  
Nathaniel had no memory of learning Russian. He gaped, but somehow the words were there.

  
“Who are you?”

  
“Oh, oh, best we leave that one for now, shall we? They say it's safest to let the memories come back on their own, but they didn’t have people like you in mind, did they, runaway? You need to stay here. You can call me Andrew.”

  
Nathaniel shivered. He blew out another slow breath, calculating. If Andrew was telling the truth, he was safe, and the relief was almost too much to bear. Since he’d first spoken, Andrew’s body had taken on a new tension, but the strain it marked left no sign on his face. The expression in those golden eyes was unmoved, but they remained fixed on Nathaniel, unwavering.

  
“Can you tell me how I got here, or is that too much to ask?”, Nathaniel snapped, in English again.

  
“I’ll give you that much. Exy. You took one too many hits to the head.”

  
“Exy,” Nathaniel breathed. Andrew had to be joking. Nathaniel shook his head. “I haven’t played since I was ten.”

  
Andrew all but rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s just say you’ve been playing more, recently.”

  
Nathaniel bit back a smile, and turned a surprised glance on Andrew, who’d made an unmistakable sound of exasperation at the sight.

  
“So you’re still in there are you, junkie?”

  
“I’m not a junkie.” Nathaniel paused, in confusion.

  
“Not that way, Mr Righteous. Exy is your poison.”

  
Oh. “Do you play? Is that how I know you?”

  
This time, Andrew did roll his eyes. “I do, but in light of your current situation,” he gestured at their surroundings, “perhaps we could leave the sports chat for later?”

  
Nathaniel felt the smile pull at the corners of his mouth. The exchange felt achingly familiar, and underneath the easy words he sensed something else beginning to tug at his gut, the shape of it swimming just out of reach. Oh. _Oh_.

  
Nathaniel looked at Andrew with new eyes, tipping his head to slant his gaze through his lashes, searching for a safe question.

  
“So we both speak Russian. How is that?”

  
Andrew went still. A beat too long, and Nathaniel didn’t miss it, the slow burn of confirmation spreading white hot along his skin.

  
“You’re right”, said Andrew.

  
“How long?”

  
“Three years”. Nathaniel pressed his hands to his stomach, his world tilting at the loss of so much time. So many memories. Panic gripped his chest like a vise as he fought to take a breath.

  
A slow, warm hand slid in against the back of his neck.

  
“Stop it.”

  
It wasn’t that simple, but, somehow, it was.

  
This too felt familiar, and Nathaniel felt himself caught on the edge of a precipice, another question pressing on his lips, as warm as the memory of a key.

  
“Andrew, yes or no?”

  
Andrew’s breath caught, and Nathaniel leaned in, so close that he could feel the heat of it against his jaw. So close, but no closer. The instinct that stopped him was bone-deep. Seconds drew into minutes as Andrew looked into his eyes.

  
At last, Andrew lifted his hands to Nathaniel’s face, and drew Nathaniel’s mouth to his own. Andrew’s kiss raked through him with its own slow gravity, pulling the weight of memory into its orbit. And, as Andrew leaned away, breathless, Neil opened his eyes again.

 


End file.
